Two Steps Forward
by RhineGold
Summary: Part Two of the Caprice Continuity. Sequel to 'Reprieve' - Every day felt like two steps forward, fourteen steps back. Their connection was undeniable, but their match was nothing but work. - slash, non-con/consent issues
1. Chapter 1

_This story is for my number one cheerleader, SacredClay, and the ever-inspiring Tanyanevidimka. This chapter is set at the end of Deliverance, beginning of Twin Destinies, and is Part Two of the Caprice Continuity. It will probably make more sense if you've read Part One, Reprieve._

**Two Steps Forward**

_Two steps forward, fourteen back, Young thought, pinching the bridge of his nose. _

"_Nothing but work," He muttered to himself._

-Reprieve

**I:**

One boot hit the steel floor, then the other. Colonel Young lay back on his bed, feet still on the floor. A great sigh escaped as he felt his body begin to wind down. Inch by inch, he deliberately clenched and relaxed his muscles, closing his eyes with relief.

It had been a long couple of days, the latest in a long couple of months in what was rapidly becoming a long couple of years. The ship was a wreck, but somehow, miraculously still flying. They had jumped to FTL safely, fleeing the drone ships and the promise of destruction for at least one more day. All he wanted now was to collapse and finally get some sleep.

The timid knocking at his door barely registered at first. When he became aware of it, he groaned, rolling to push up to his feet. Leaving his boots, he walked over to the door. He could feel yet another hole in his socks beginning to widen, letting a bite of cold stab into his foot with each step. He palmed the door, planting his hand just above the mechanism, leaning over the doorway as it slid open.

Nicholas Rush looked up, looking mildly caught off-guard by Young's appearance. He held a small notebook of equations, flipping the lid shut before tucking it into his vest pocket.

"Are we doing that briefing now?" Young asked, voice thick and sluggish.

"Sorry, you were sleeping?" Rush asked, looking a bit chagrined.

Young wiped his left hand over his face, stifling a yawn. "Getting there."

"I can come back later," the scientist said, turning on his heel.

"What is it, Rush?" He called the man back, pushing off the wall and inclining his head.

Accepting the invitation, Rush followed him into the room. He stood against the wall, just to the side of Young's shaving mirror, crossing his arms to his chest. Shaking off his weariness, Young closed the door before heading over to sit gracelessly on the sofa.

"Heck of a day," He said finally, clasping his hands across his knees. Rush nodded, brows draw together, but he said nothing. "You got something to say?" He tried again.

Rush raised his left arm, pressing the back of his knuckles to his mouth, seemingly struggling to voice something.

Young recognized the expression on his face, along with the set of his shoulders. "You know none of this was your fault. No one blames you."

He spread his fingers, splaying them across his chin before letting his hand fall away. "Right. I'm the one who decided to seek out the signal we picked up."

"And I'm the one who authorized the deviance from Destiny's plotted course," Young reminded. "Your reasoning was sound. It was worth knowing what was out there."

"Was it?" He snapped back, expression irritated now.

"You didn't know, Rush," He said gently.

"Yeah, well, I bloody well should have!"

Young stood and stepped closer to him, trying to swallow back the shiver he felt when Rush pressed back against the wall, expression guarded. "No one on this ship is perfect, Rush. Not even you..."

The other man laughed at that, the skin around his eyes wrinkling. He ran a hand through his hair, fluffing it before letting it drop back messily against his skull. "...Of course."

Rush didn't move as Young came up short just in front of him. He could feel the other man's body heat from this distance; see the way his chest rose and fell under his crossed arms. He watched the pulse-point in his neck jump, ducking his head forward before even thinking about it.

Young stood there, his nose buried in the crook of the other man's neck, not saying a word, just waiting, trying to breathe steadily through his mouth. When Rush's hand came up to curve around the back of his head, he groaned, letting his full weight rest against the other man.

"What are you doing, Colonel?" Rush whispered, but his voice sounded more tired than concerned.

"Beats me," Young murmured, turning his head to seal his lips over the scientist's mouth. Rush opened under him, the hand in his hair clutching tighter, fingers splayed wide and warm in his curls. His mouth tasted of the strange, bitter mint, his lips chapped under his.

Young dipped his head, leaning in closer, as though he could press their bodies into one, as if he could crawl up inside the other man to finally explore every one of his hidden thoughts and desires. Rush let out a sigh that Young tasted, felt more than heard. He swallowed it, swallowed everything the other man would give him, until they broke apart, panting.

He let his face slip back against his throat, mouth trailing absently over the column of muscle there, feeling his pulse beat against his lips. Rush was nearly limp against him, held up only by Young's body pressing him to the wall.

"...This isn't what I came here for," Rush whispered, eyes on the ceiling.

Young pulled back a bit, seeking his gaze then. "Why did you come?" He asked finally.

With a faint snort, Rush shrugged inelegantly, before reaching for his head again with both hands this time. He tugged Young's face down, closing the gap between their mouths.

This kiss was brighter, hungrier. Young could feel Rush pressing against him now, one arm on his head, the other curving around his back and shoulders. A knee came up between his legs and he drove his own against Rush, locking them together from mouth to hip. He combed his own hands through the other man's hair, cupping the back of his neck, sliding around to his jaw and down his throat to his shoulders and back again.

Finally, Rush's hands came around to rest against Young's t-shirt, clutching the fabric tightly before pushing him away slowly. Face flushed, catching his breath, Young sought out his eyes again, questioning.

His voice lower and huskier than Young had ever heard it, Rush gasped out, "Bed..."

Nodding, Young pulled him bodily off the wall, clutching him against him with his hands on his upper arms, kissing him again. Without breaking the kiss, he walked Rush backwards until his knees hit the side of the bed.

Rush fell away from him, expression flustered and surprised as he tumbled back against the bed, limbs splayed. Slowly, Young climbed onto the bed, one knee on either side of his hips as he leaned down to take his mouth again.

He could feel Rush squirming under him, so he drew back finally, allowing them both some air. He was pleased to see the other man was as flushed and disheveled as he felt. His hair splayed around him on the bedspread, highlighted with gold by the lantern light. He clutched at Young's shoulders, legs curled up between his. His lips looked bruised and red already, eyes wide and blown. Young had never given much thought to another man's physical appearance before, but at this moment, he realized that Rush looked amazing.

"This what you want to do?" He asked raggedly, one hand on either side of his head. He tried to hold himself off of the body beneath his, not wanting to pressure or frighten Rush before he could make up his mind.

Rush took a deep breath, closing his eyes. He let go of Young's shoulders, his hands falling on either side of his own head, fingers just brushing over Young's where he held himself by his arms. "...Another one of my terrible ideas as of late, I'm afraid," He murmured finally.

"Rush," he growled softly, a warning and a plea rolled into one.

"Shut up, Colonel," Rush answered, reaching to grab him by the head again, pulling him down until their mouths met.

**II:**

In the quiet of Destiny's seemingly endless night, Young lay awake, as usual. What was not usual was the man lying beside him, curled into a ball on the edge of the bed. Young turned from his back to his side, studying the man's sleeping face.

Rush looked peaceful at rest, eyelashes low on his face, mouth slack. His hair clung to his beard, spilling over his face and around on the pillow they shared. He still looked exhausted, the lines of his face clearly defined by the shadows of the room. Outside, space whirled by in a twist of bluish light, but in here, all he could hear was the sounds of their breathing.

He had taken Rush to his bed, where they had shared more kissed than he could recall ever having with another person, even Emily. He had cautiously run his hands over the other man's body, as thin, clever fingers explored his own.

Finally, they had come together in a press that was more desperate than satisfying, him groaning Rush's name into the man's hair. Rush hadn't said a word, merely collapsed bonelessly beneath him, before curling onto his side, half-way asleep. Young couldn't remember the last time he had come simply by pressing his clothed body against another's. He felt like a teenager again, nervous and unsure, but oh-so satisfied.

Young knew the morning would be awkward, uncomfortable, and messy. Still, he thought, as he reached out to trace his fingers along the sleeping man's jaw, it could be worth it. He thought of the taste of Rush's tongue, the tension of his muscles, and that soft exhalation of breath when he'd felt him spill against his lap, setting Young over the edge as well.

_"I regret everything about you and me,"_ He'd said once, those weeks ago, during their bitter, frightening clash. Young barely recognized the man who had said those words, who had held Rush against the wall, who had been too weak to control himself. Their meeting tonight had held none of that anger, none of that tension. Rush had opened himself up and Young had followed.

They had a connection that was undeniable. Rush stirred instincts in him he had not even known he still had. He didn't know what Rush's angle was in all of this - what he hoped to find in Young's mouth, his hands, his bed. Maybe the man himself didn't know. Whatever it was, in this quiet moment, with no barriers between them, Young realized he was willing to find out.

**III:**

Young leaned in closer to the other man, keeping his voice low in order to keep the conversation private in the huddled masses of the Gateroom. "...I need a number." He said softly.

After consulting his sheet of paper, Rush bit his lip. He could see the other man's mind turning over the question, running through mental simulations and calculating sums, before finally deciding, "I'll say a dozen."

"Plus you and me?" For a moment, Young struggled to control the surge of doubt he felt saying those words. However, when he saw the expression on the other man's face, the way his eyes widened with surprise, and all doubts suddenly vanished. He had seen many expressions on Nicholas Rush's face, from rage to desolation, fear to despair. He now had another to add to his collection - hope.

Finally, the other man seemed to find his voice. "No…including us."

Feeling confident at last, Young smiled. "So, ten."

This was going to work. They were going to make it work, together. For one, brief shining moment, it seemed as though they had both managed to come together as a cohesive, coherent unit. And then, as it always did, it all came crashing down.


	2. Chapter 2

_Set just after 'Twin Destinies' and told slightly out-of-sequence for absolutely no reason. After a long dry spell of no writing, this just sort of happened._

_Non-con/lack of consent warning._

**III:**

When they finally come together, it's messy and violent. Young slams Rush's shoulders against the wall, closing one eye reflexively as the smaller man's palm comes up to dig against his socket. He twists the hand viciously until Rush gives, bending his arm at the elbow as Young pins it beside his head.

After a moment, he seems to regroup, bringing his head forward, butting against Young's already aching skull, making them both swear. Young uses his body's superior weight to twist them both, bearing down on Rush's shoulder until they both sag to the side and into the floor.

The fight is more earnest here, legs and knees and elbows, but Young is stronger, has always been stronger, and Rush is already so very tired.

"Why does it always..." Young gasps out, voice ragged and raw. He pauses as best he can, still holding Rush's wrist in one hand, his other fisted on the collar of his layered shirts. "Why does it always have to be this way... with you and me?" He spits, tasting the tang of blood with surprise before recalling Rush's brutal elbow to his cheek a few moments before.

"Because it has to," Rush hisses, sounding as cracked as his lips look when he draws them back over his teeth in a snarl.

**I:**

"If there's anything you need to talk about, Colonel..." Camille broke off abruptly, apparently having become very interested in the bottle of water in her hands.

Pinching the bridge of his nose against the headache brewing there, Young let his hand slip down to press against his mouth. He exhaled a deep breath, eyes glancing up at the ceiling. "...Rush is alive." He said finally.

"Yes," she replied, clearly not following his segue. "But the loss of Col. Telford, even if he is technically still with us in some ways..."

"We end up where we started. One Telford, one Rush." He interrupted, voice dropping as fatigue finally crept over him.

"Except the Telford you knew is dead. And his double is gone back to Earth."

"Yeah, well," he replied, voice falsely cheerful again, "These things happen."

"Colonel..." She called after his retreating form.

He didn't have to turn around to know her posture - one hand on her hip, the other raising the water bottle in a questioning gesture. "I'll be in my quarters if anyone needs me. Please don't need me."

He had expected to find his quarters empty - to crawl into an exhausted and turbulent sleep, tangled in slippery bed sheets and unspoken remorse. Nicholas Rush, of course, had had other ideas.

**IV:**

The sound of Rush's breathing is loud in his ear, and Young shivers despite himself. He presses down harder, tightening his grip on the other man's throat, squeezing tighter. He can feel Rush's panting growing more shallow by the second, and when he reaches his other hand between them, there is no resistance this time.

Rush's fingers scrape at the side of his neck, just under his ear, and Young rolls his head into his hand, letting him scabber in his short, thick curls. The angle allows him to slam their mouths together, and he releases Rush's throat to steal his breath this way instead.

One of them makes a soft, keening sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and Young realizes he could not answer for the life of him which it had been. He can feel Rush's hips jutting into his own thigh as the smaller man kicks and writhes beneath his hand. When Young breaks off the kiss, he slaps Rush's face lightly, making him open his eyes in confusion.

The other man is dazed; his brown eyes wide, pupils cavernous in the dark of the room. His eyebrows are drawn up in confusion - he stares at Young as though he does not quite remember where he is or what is going on for the moment. Rush curls his left wrist against his chest, the backs of his knuckles against the material of his shirt. He peers down at his chest as though something has surprised him.

Feeling his throat tighten, Young curls his own fingers downwards, making Rush yelp and jerk forward, hands coming up to press against his chest, trying to shove him away. The disorientation passes and Rush seems to remember what is happening - their fight, the brutal scuffle, and the slow burn of two of Young's fingers already inside him.

**II:**

"What the hell are you doing in here?" Young snapped.

Rush watched him stalk across the room, keeping his hands loosely clasped in front of him, arms braced on his knees. He didn't move from the sofa as Young sat on his bed and began tugging his boots

"I said, what the hell do you think you're doing in here?" He repeated finally.

Shrugging, the other man pressed his mouth together in a flat, tight line. "You want to explain what that little show in the Gateroom was about earlier?" he began eventually, voice clipped and high.

"'That little show' was me trying to deal with the worst day this ship has ever had!" Young snarled, feeling something loosen in his chest, uncoiling like a viper preparing to strike.

Rush chuckled mirthlessly, running a hand through his hair. He grinned tightly, eyes sharpening as he spoke, "Oh, yeah. The absolute _worst_."

His voice sounded so mocking that Young found himself across the room before he'd even registered getting to his feet. Rush continued to smirk at him until the first punch cracked into his face.

**V:**

Snarling, Rush kicks out at him, but Young shoves one knee hard between his thighs, separating them as he twists his fingers deeper. Another yelp, this one a bitten off swear, and Rush is clawing at his throat again. When Young grabs hold of his neck once more, he can feel the corded muscle and the hammer of a pulse against his fingers. Rush stills, staring up at him with an undeniably frightened defiance Young can barely stomach.

"Why do you have to make this so damn hard?" he snarls, his voice gritty and hot. He can taste blood in his mouth and see it smeared across Rush's cheek from where his lip has been ripped across teeth.

"It can never be easy," Rush spits back, and Young lifts with his wrist, pulling him up awkwardly before letting him thud back down again, hair fluttering as his head cracks against the steel floor. He hates Rush's determination, hates his apparent need and fucking _ability_ to always get the last word.

Young has never had much skill with words, always finding himself caught up in thinking through and choosing his position carefully. His caution translates to a slower speech, whereas Rush's firecracker personality is easily seen in the sharpness of his tongue.

Instead, Young has always found solace in the physical - the concrete and the tangible. He can hold Rush in his hands, can feel the muscle and sinew, can taste the sweat and the blood and that damned tinge of mint that never quite seems to go away. He can part his thighs and slam his hips between them, can bury his hands in his hair and his mouth in the crook of his shoulder and throat. He swallows the sound Rush makes when he aligns himself with his entrance. The smell of the condom seems so alien in the sterile air of Destiny.

He can feel Rush's hands pressing against his collarbone, fisted in his shirt. He can feel the way the smaller man trembles against him - more like a grand mal seizure than a lover's embrace. This is not sex. This is just violence, violence of the body and of the self, as Young pours everything he has into fucking the man pinned beneath him on the floor.

This is not consensual. It is not advisable. It is wrong, Young knows, on every level that a thing can be wrong, but he cannot stop himself. The other man is there, twisting and gasping beneath him, and he can feel his blood in his body and under his skin, and he is alive. Young himself feels both half-dead and more complete than he has in years. He knows he is hurting Rush - it is hurting him to push in and deep like this, so it must be unbearable for the other man.

But Rush bears it, without a word. He does not cry or swear or demand he stop. He does not beg. He endures it, as he has endured everything Young has thrown at him, or said, or done. He can feel and hear Rush panting against him, ragged, desperate sounds, but Rush does not break. Instead, Young can feel himself breaking, unraveling into splintered fragments, spooling down into nothing but the delicious counterpoint of painful heat and searing pressure as he thrusts deeper against and into the other man.

He reaches for Rush, rhythm faltering when he finds him soft. He can feel nails digging into his wrists, but he ignores them, stroking and cupping him as gently as he can, coaxing the flesh into a state of arousal. Rush seems to go quiet when he hardens in Young's hand, the gasping breaths becoming shallow and less defined. His hips jerk up between them, bone bruising against Young's skin, but this only makes him bear down harder.

Young knows he should stop, should pull away, should be ashamed of the grunts and snarls spilling from his lips, falling with spit and blood into the other man's hair. He knows he should let go of Rush and this connection and these desperate, screaming thoughts that only seem to end where their bodies meet. He kissed him again, one hand fisting in his hair to twist his face to a good angle, and Young realizes he still wants to crawl inside Rush. He invades him from both ends, trying to turn him inside out, to force him to give up his secret places and hidden agendas and coded thoughts.

He comes before Rush does, grunting as their teeth clack so hard it rattles him. In this moment, he owns Rush, but he knows the moment will end.


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks for all the really excellent feedback from the last bit. I was concerned about the overall feel of the piece, as well as the content, but it seems to have worked the way I wanted it to. _

_Special thanks to CleanWhiteRoom for letting me prattle on and on and on about the thoughts and feelings I have regarding these characters and the way they so violently commit to one-another's orbit. And thanks to SacredClay for making me feel like less of a creep with her heart-felt message. _

_Not so sure about this chapter, but its here, so here it is. _

It would be easier to wake on Destiny if there were ever anything like an actual morning. Instead, Young opens his eyes into the blackness of space, the darkness of a cold room, and the sluggish feeling of a night gone oh-so-well and horribly wrong. His body aches, which is absolutely nothing new, but the curious dryness of the skin on his crotch and thighs alert him to the buried information regarding the last evening. He closes his eyes against the sting of the abrasions and the ghost of another man's breath on his throat.

Finally, finally, he manages to pull himself to his feet. Putting on clothes is a rote effort. Fingers find zippers and buttons as his mind turns over the sound of a shuddered breath, the bite of a curve of fingernails, the pulse of flesh too hot and too dry. The cold stiffness of the cotton is universes away from the hot slick of Nicholas Rush's flesh.

Destiny's halls are empty. The time agreed upon as 'night' is still in effect, and the crew is as exhausted as the vessel in the wake of recent events. He finds Rush in the first place he considered, and the last place he looked, as though he could somehow delay the inevitability of the conclusion through sheer force of will.

The door to the Infirmary is cold under his fingers. The mechanism feels faintly damp, which alerts him to the prospect the room is occupied as the lock disengages. When the panels slide back, he still freezes, unable to move forward for a moment, paralyzed by those wide, dark eyes.

Rush stands to the side of TJ's station, one hand still raised to replace a bottle of antiseptic. He has wrapped the knuckles of that hand, and Young fights a flinch as he recalls the force of those bones being driven into his jaw. Rush is dressed, his dirty jeans blending into the shadows cast by the desk, but oddly wearing only his thinning t-shirt, with no sign of the undershirt and vest. He holds his broken glasses in the hand at his side, his fingers curled almost protectively around the lenses. The only light comes from the open laptop on the desk, making the stark lines of the scientist's face seem gaunt and hollow.

After a long, excruciating moment, Rush turns away. His fingers release the bottle and he lowers his arm, pausing to run his fingers through his hair as he exhales a long breath. His hair is stringy, clinging to his wrist in a tangle before breaking apart in little locks that don't quite lay flat in the back. He is dirty and bruised. He looks tired.

For an inexplicable moment, Young is reminded of the first time they met, back on Icarus, when both of them were more civilized and far more sane. Rush had looked at him, appraising in a way that was almost uncomfortable, nearly awkward, before turning away with a sigh. He'd asked if something had been the matter and Rush had shrugged elegantly before turning and stalking away.

There is nowhere to stalk now, not here, in the quiet, silvery silence of the Infirmary. Rush smears the palm of his right hand across his face, rubbing at his eye before turning his attention back to the desk and his glasses.

"...We need to talk," Young says finally, and before he has even finished speaking, Rush is making an agitated, clicking sound, shaking his glasses at him in a jerky, dismissive gesture. "_Rush_," he tries again, his voice taking on that gravel pitch that only seems to come with that name.

Shaking his head, Rush hunches over, arms bent at the elbow, palms against the desk on either side of the laptop. Eventually, he raises his glasses up on one side, holding them in place to balance against the missing arm.

Young wonders suddenly why no one on this ship has been able to come up with a better solution to repairing those frames than the bent wire of a paperclip long since lost. It seems a colossal waste, considering how many people were on board and the things they had managed to accomplish during their tenure here.

He watches Rush read, his almost distressingly-wide eyes tracking across the screen as he impatiently scrolls every now and then. Finally, he nods slightly before closing his eyes in what might have been a twinge of pain or even a stifled yawn.

"Are you hurt?" Young asks eventually, voice low and cautious.

Rush flinches almost imperceptivity and looks up then, his expression showing he had almost forgotten Young was even there. "...I'll live," he says finally.

It's the first thing Young has heard him say here, the first thing in hours, since he'd spit defiantly in Young's face only to be slammed back against the floor again. Something tightens in Young, splintering further until he clenches his fists to keep his fingers from trembling. He swallows hard, nodding several times as he struggles to get a lid on his sudden and violent spike of anger. "You'll live," He repeats tersely, biting the words out in a voice that is darker than he'd like.

"Yeah..." Rush murmurs, eyes darting between Young and the door. For the first time, the other man seems to realize he is essentially trapped behind the desk. To move for the door would mean to pass by Young, close enough to touch, and it is clear that neither of them want that just this moment.

Young knows he should move away. He should retreat to the far side of the room, behind the beds, or towards the side-rooms, away from Rush and the door and the tangle of emotions and pheromones and the scent of sex that still clings to them both. He should withdraw to let Rush escape, but he stays where he is, hands fisted at his sides, as he tries to come to terms with the turmoil in his head.

He is a rapist. He is _Rush's_ rapist, and, while Rush looks concerned, wary, he does not look frightened. He does not see the fear in his face that had been present that night in Storage Bay 3, when he'd first pinned the man against the wall and kissed him violently. The absence of that kind of fear enrages him, though he cannot say why. Is it because he wants Rush to be able to express and work through the trauma he is surely feeling? Or because he is disappointed that Rush is somehow stronger than he anticipated?

Still unsure, he takes a step forward, then another. Rush holds his ground, only listing forward slightly to release his hold on the glasses. The sound of the frames hitting the metal surface seems like a gunshot in this tension.

Rush's hands are curled at his sides now, fingers in loose fists, wrists turned slightly outward. He can see the tension running through those limbs; see the vein running from just under his shirt sleeve all the way down to his wrist. He remembers suddenly that Rush always used to wear a watch, and he wonders what ever happened to the thing. Young's own watch is sitting on the small table beside his bed, discarded weeks ago and ignored. Time on Density is relative and the constriction only serves to remind him of the lack of circuit on his left hand. Rush used to wear a wedding ring, too.

When they are close enough to touch, Young reaches one hand out, experimentally, moving to touch Rush's shoulder. The other man explodes into motion, rolling his shoulder back out of Young's grasp before bringing up his right arm to smash against Young's face. He catches the limb before it can make contact, rattling Rush back against the cabinet, his hand slipping up to cup the other man's wrist.

"Rush! _Rush_!" He snarls, trying to get a hold of himself as his temper flares. "Calm down!"

"_You_ calm down!" Rush snaps, clenching his jaw in a movement Young has come to recognize.

He ducks his head to the side and forward, catching Rush's shoulder with his own face before the man can connect the head butt he has braced for. "I'm not here to fight you, Rush," he growls against the other man's throat, his lips tracing the skin there despite himself. This is not going at all the way he has planned it, but then again, what ever did?

Rush's head cracks back against the cabinet of its own accord as the man lets out a shaky laugh that crests upwards as it continues, verging on hysterical. "No..." He murmurs faintly, making Young tense further where they are pressed together. "No," he continues breathlessly, "We wouldn't want any fighting, now would we? Might get messy, that. Might get... violent."

"Rush,"

"_Shut_ up."

"I need to know that you're okay," He murmurs, drawing back to search the other man's face.

The expression he finds is a twist between derision and panic, which feels like a brick in his stomach even as it is a soaring relief. He tries to pretend the tell-tale wash of pleasure at the other man's discomfort isn't there.

"Let go of me," Rush says finally, tugging on his captive arm. Young follows the motion, the flex of muscle, up his arm and to where his hand is locked over Rush's wrist. He knows from experience he can hold both of the man's wrists in his own - Rush's hands might be large, but his wrists are surprisingly delicate, the pistiform extremely pronounced under the skin. Breaking his gaze away from their interlocked limbs, he turns his attention back to Rush's face.

Rush is watching him, lips furrowed slightly in concentration, eyes tracking over his face as they had the computer screen earlier. He wonders, not for the first time, not even close, what Rush thinks when he studies him. What he must be thinking now, in light of the evening's events.

"I came to see if you were all right..." He whispers, raising his free hand to cup Rush's face. The other man tenses, his throat lengthening as he raises his head slightly. "I wanted to... _Shit_, Rush, I'm _sorry_," He ducks his head, letting the weight of it settle on Rush's chest for a moment.

He can hear Rush's heart thudding in his chest and he knows he is being a monster. He held the man down and forced him into vicious, painful sex, and here he is, pinning him to the wall so he can apologize for his violence. He feels sick to his stomach and sore all over and yet there is a part of him that can smell the sex on their skin and the blood in Rush's hair and all he wants to do is give in to that voice and slam their mouths together for that heat and strength and tiny hint of mint.

Instead, he takes a shaky breath and steps back, releasing Rush's arm. Keeping his head bowed, eyes on the floor, Young indicates the open doorway with one arm. "Go..." He murmurs. When Rush doesn't move, his voice ratchets up to a snarl, "GO!"

Now, the other man moves, turning to snatch up his computer and glasses, sweeping past Young in a stride that would look more purposeful if he weren't limping slightly to one side. Without a glance back at him, Rush is gone.

Young buries his face in his hands and exhales. He smells of blood, sex, and _Rush_. After a long, painful moment where every muscle in his body tenses, jerking spasmodically as he struggles to sort out his raging desires and cresting self-loathing, Young sighs. Dropping his hands to his sides, he squares his shoulders.

Taking a deep breath, he starts off down the hallway, after Rush.


End file.
